


Winter Dawn

by beau_tea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Keith/Lance/Shiro (Voltron), Fae & Fairies, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Minor Original Character(s), Miscommunication, Multi, Royalty, Secrets, Sex, Slow To Update, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence, shklance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beau_tea/pseuds/beau_tea
Summary: Every Winter Dawn, the time when food becomes scarce and crops refuse to grown in cold, unrelenting ground, the humans make a sacrifice to the Grand Fae that governs their land. They hope for blessing and protection against other fae—but most of all, from the Grand Fae itself. This year the winter is especially cruel, and when his sister is chosen as the sacrificial human, Lance begs to be sent in her stead. And so he goes, praying for death among other mercies, but when the Grand Fae and his lover aren’t at all what Lance had heard fae to be, he finds himself warming up to the two and his new life. However, things aren’t as tranquil in the Fae Lands as he’d thought, and when a menace rises in the horizon, their new lives are shaken to the very core.





	1. Chosen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Dawn arrives with the next morning, and every single human will be dreading the night, when all the townsfolk will gather at the edge of the Meridian and only calm their fears when the chosen were—well, chosen—and taken away by the fae.
> 
> No one knows the fates of those unfortunate enough to be selected, and Lance wouldn’t care to find out.

Lance wakes to drafty windows and a thin, holey quilt, just as he had the past eighteen years of his life. However, this day isn’t like the rest, and tension is evident in the worried faces of his sister and father. The three move about their regular morning routine, but no cheerful banter or snippets of song are exchanged. Instead, they completely each task quickly, quietly, and like the rest of the village, they wait.

Shivering in his thin clothing, Lance gathers up an armful of firewood from the pile behind their small cabin, making a mental note to gather more before the pile dwindles too low. The earth is hard and cold underneath his worn leather boots as he clumps back inside, adding a log to the faint flame and stacking the rest under the mantle.

“Lance,” Veronica calls softly, then nods at their father, her long brown hair swaying with her movements. There’s worry in her soft grey eyes, the same worry she holds every time their father seems to stop in time and simply exists, unaware of the world around him. Lance’s late mother used to called these lags “visiting the clouds”.

Well, he can visit the clouds all he wants, Lance decides, but not with a sharp nail in one hand. Their father is a carpenter, not the worst of jobs, but not enough to keep their family from the pains of hunger after Winter Dawn.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine as he gently removes the nail from the older man’s hand, examining the iron point before signing and setting it back down on the table.

Winter Dawn arrives with the next morning, and every single human will be dreading the night, when all the townsfolk will gather at the edge of the Meridian and only calm their fears when the chosen were—well, chosen—and taken away by the fae.

No one knows the fates of those unfortunate enough to be selected, and Lance wouldn’t care to find out.

The day passes too quickly for something everyone is dreading, and before Lance knows it, the sun is setting and the murmuring of voices can be heard from outside. He lays a hand on Veronica’s shoulder before helping his father pull on a woolen cloak, ushering the two outside into the steady flow of people heading towards the Meridian. Several children run by, their game soon subdued by parents. The miller’s wife cradles her infant to her bosom, cooing and shushing the baby’s soft whimpering.

“Careful,” Lance says softly, guiding the two over the rocks that come bigger and more frequent the closer they get to the forest. When at last they reach the small clearing right at the edge of the dense trees, Lance’s palms are clammy and his heart stutters weakly against his rib cage. Even the children are silent now, tightly clutching their parent’s hands, some burying their faces into a mother’s embrace.

Lance recalls the first choosing he can remember and shivers again. That was a good year, when the crops were good enough the villagers could offer a portion of the grain instead of a person’s life. Things were different now, the cold ground unrelenting despite the persistence work of farmers laboring day after day with dull tools and the meager reserve of seeds from the small harvests of last year.

The crunch of a dead fern under his boots brings Lance back to the present, and he suppresses a shudder as the villagers file silently into the clearing, trees looming above their heads, branches twisted and casting shadows that seem to creep closer as the sun fully descends.

Darkness envelops the Meridian, and the humans huddle almost desperately closer to the small lanterns that several had brought along, the faint lights doing little to quell their growing fear.

A gust of cold wind sends the treetops swaying with an sinister chorus of whispers from the leaves above. The underbrush is suddenly alive with noise, creatures darting to and fro, a lone nightingale crooning a low, mournful note before all noise vanishes, silence filling the air with tense expectancy.

Lance listens intently for sound, but his ears reveal nothing; even the people around him seem to have stopped breathing. His stomach turns at the feeling that there was someone—some _thing_ —out there that he could not hear, but was observing them. Suddenly too aware of his vulnerable state, Lance turns his eyes upward, seeking solace in the round moon.

A flash of light catches his gaze, however, and his grip tightens on Veronica’s hand as terror rushes through him, leadening his limbs and striking him mute despite the furious urge he has to _scream_ , to run back to the comfort of his home, to get _away_ from the depths of the Meridian, because he was right and there _is_ something there. Cold sweat runs down his back as Lance finds his muscles locked in place. His throat burns when he tries to swallow, only to realize his mouth has about as much moisture as cotton wool.

Those are _eyes_ he’s staring at, two glowing slits of yellow that seem to envelope Lance in it’s gaze. Then the _thing_ blinks and it’s gone, leave Lance to question both his sanity and the resilience of his bladder against the unknown frights of the Meridian.

A voice screams, followed by several gasps that can only mean one thing.

The fae have arrived to collect.

Several people surge backwards, and Lance finds himself near the front of the crowd. His heart stops when pale gold meets his own dark blue. Instinct has Lance dropping his eyes to the ground and pulling his family behind him, praying to whatever gods had have not yet abandoned the human race to maybe pick them up via godly transportation and bring them somewhere else, _anywhere_ else but here.

When he finds a courage he isn’t sure he should have, his peeks up again. This time he truly takes in the fae’s appearance, and he’s surprised, to say the least. He? She? _It_ is covered with a deep lilac pelt, and though a good head taller than anyone around Lance, he feels no sense of the awkward lankiness one would normally assume from someone tall and dare he say as skinny as the creature that stands quietly, just within the bounds of the Meridian. Its gaze now freely flits across it’s unwilling audience.

The few (thank goodness for that) fae he had seen before were distorted creatures, with strange features and appendages he doesn’t want to know the uses for.

This one was almost… No. He won’t let himself finish that thought.

In one swift movement, the fae approaches the group, and Lance remembers his previously forgotten fear all too clearly as he realizes the figure is gliding in his direction. He squeezes his eyes shut, but nothing happens.

Nothing, until he feels something brush past him and his sister lets out a strangled cry.

Blood rushes up to his head and Lance’s eyes spring open, greeted with the sight of Veronica struggling weakly in the fae’s grip as it stalks off into the Meridian, her grey eyes wide and full of despair.

Lance is starting forward and grabbing Veronica’s other arm before he can even process what he’s doing.

“No,” he says, voice hoarse.

The villagers gasp as one. To try and prevent the choosing was practically asking for death, not just for the perpetrator, but for the village entirely. The fae hold human lives with no measure of worth, and none would be loathe to punish disobedience.

The world seems to freeze as the fae turns its eyes, now with some amount of displeasure, to Lance. He feels like the creature is piercing though to his very core, and he’s suddenly struck with the realization that he has just made one of the stupidest decisions of his life. Suddenly, the fae tilts its head as if in consideration, and then Lance finds himself stumbling forward, a cool hand clamped in a vice-like grip on his wrist.

“Lance!”

Lance turns his head, movements slow as if he’s wading through sand. Veronica clutches her chest, horror pooling tears in her eyes.

 _Don’t follow me_ , Lance pleads silently, meeting her eyes. _Please._ To his immense relief, Veronica stays in place, frozen, just like the rest of the village behind her. As trees block his view, Lance’s last view of his home is his father, eyes for once completely clear, fixed on Lance in a strange determination.

 

A nightingale takes up its song once again, notes chilling and eerie amidst the silence of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit it—I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to tags and all that fun stuff, but I'm excited for this story, and I hope you'll stick with me throughout it ^^;
> 
> Please tell me in the comments what you think!


	2. Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once Lance got past the general terror of being dragged through the Meridian with his arm in the possession of a fae, he valiantly defeated the creature and returned to his village, forever celebrated in history as a hero.
> 
> Sadly, none of that happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> But also come at me :D every author enjoys hurting their characters once in a while right?
> 
> ...right? WeLL oKaY tHeN---
> 
> Oh and please bear with me, this is unedited as of right now because it's midnight and I sleep need yes now. <3

Once Lance got past the general terror of being dragged through the Meridian with his arm in the possession of a fae, he valiantly defeated the creature and returned to his village, forever celebrated in history as a hero.

Sadly, none of that happened. 

Rather, Lance has never been more terrified in his life. Looking past his clammy hands and wide eyes, dread drenches every nerve in cold lead. His eyes threaten to overflow with tears, and sobs hover in his throat, only pride keeping him from bawling like a child.

If the fae leading Lance into his doom senses his fright, he doesn’t comment on it. The sick bastard doesn’t care for the emotions of an insignificant human, Lance thinks bitterly. On they trudge—well actually the fae is doing this stupid fancy glidey thing so it’s only Lance’s thats scaring half of the Meridian away with his clumsy footsteps—going in no particular direction at a pace that soon has Lance sweaty and panting.

Surprisingly, the fae notices Lance’s tiredness and pauses for a moment, giving him a critical once-over before altering his route. Before Lance can work up the nerve to ask him about the sudden change in their trek, they arrived at a small clearing. The fae stops and releases his arm, giving him a warning look before retreating a few steps and leaning against a tree, yellow eyes never leaving his form.

Lance stares back at him, half expecting the fae to murder him right there and then. He contemplates making a run for it, a notion that loses resolve when the fae’s eyes harden, as if he’s read Lance’s mind.

To test his theory, Lance scientifically releases a string of vile profanities in his head.

No response.

Well, that was to be expected. Fighting down a mix of embarrassment and relief, Lance cautiously lowers himself to the damp grass below him, fingers carding through the emerald stalks. His first instinct is to talk, and his second is to again, bawl like a newborn. It seems that neither would be appreciated by the fae, however, so Lance simply sits and waits, his breath slowing.

The silence is thick and awkward, occasionally interrupted by the musical chirping of sparrows. The fae seems deep in thought, brows furrowed and gaze faraway. Suddenly, he pushes off the tree.

“Come.”

Then the fae is off, and Lance follows dumbly behind him, too shocked at the smooth timbre of the creature’s voice to even consider escape. Such an otherworldly sound should be illegal, or at least confined to the heavenly realm it surely originated from. The accent was like nothing Lance had ever heard, perfectly comprehensible, and yet with a strange lilting quality that sent heat to his chest.

A century (okay more like an hour but let a man complain will you) of tripping over roots and getting caught in low-hanging branches later, the fae sighs once, and then glares at Lance. Lance stares back, nervous and slightly affronted. He’d tried his best to be a good captive, having only requested a potty break three times, but the fae is looking at him as if Lance is the filthy product of said potty breaks.

As an insulted “what” bubbles to his lips, the fae promptly turns on his heel and marches forward a few paces, stopping suddenly, only to have Lance crash into the fae’s back. Irritated, the creature turns and grips the human’s upper arm to steady them both. 

Lance is suddenly hyper aware of their proximity, and he tries to pull away, stopping when the sharp point of claws dig into his arm to stop him. This is it, his mind bemoans, but his heart does a strange fluttery thing that sends warmth to his cheeks. Get a grip on yourself, he chides internally, and musters up the most annoyed look he can, directing it up to the fae.

He falters when his eyes meet bright gold, and the beginnings of a half-snarl melt off his face.

“Uh—”

The fae strikes out like a snake, and suddenly Lance is falling, an ache at the back of his neck sending a throbbing sensation throughout his body. The world around him dips and spins, prickles of pain spreading from his fingers, a feeling that dims into a numbness that leadens his eyes.

\----------

The strange rocking and swaying underneath Lance does nothing to sooth the dizziness threatening to empty the contents of his stomach onto the lion-esque beast below him.

Wait. What? Lion—

Lance screeches and flails like a dying fish on fire. Something, however, gets in the way of his hand’s impromptu decision to throw itself off Lance’s wrist, and that something—which is actually someone according to Lance’s genius mental calculations—curses behind him.

Hot damn. Even the stupid fae’s profanity sounds...

No. No no no no no no no no no no nononononononono—

The lion thingy thing underneath Lance gives an irritated chuff, and Lance instantly freezes, one hand bent awkwardly at the elbow and the other high above his head trying to achieve flight. A sigh breaks him out of his elegant pose and he whips around to come yet again face to face with the fae.

In the pale light of dawn, the creature looks different. Freed from the robe of darkness, the fae looks vaguely humanoid.

Very vaguely.

Horns emerge from his temple, more like a raised crest of dark indigo scales that curve over the sides of his head before extending out in a sort of dark crown that frames his head. They’re slim, and taper into sharp points, lighter at the tips. The fae’s ears are where a human’s would be, but rather than skin, two fluffy, almost doe-like ears sprout from amidst black locks.

His hair is unkempt and long, but he still looks so damn regal Lance wants to smooth down his own hair in embarrassment, before he remembers he’s not supposed to care what the beast thinks of him.

The fae’s expression is unreadable as he watches Lance mumble something unintelligible before spinning around. A second later Lance is back and glaring at him again.

“Y-you attacked me!”

“I did not.”

Again, Lance has to ignore the awe rising in his chest at the fae’s voice. “Yes, you did! You broke my personal space bubble and attacked me!”

Golden eyes stare at Lance. “I broke no bubble.”

“Oh for the love of—”

His words were silenced by a cold hand clamped down over his mouth, claws pressed against his cheek, not hard enough to break the skin but clearly sharp enough to do so, if the fae so desired. An indignant protest halts in Lance’s chest when the fae lets out a positively feral snarl, pupils blown, gaze directed into the shadowed undergrowth.

The lion underneath them grows too, its snake-like tail thrashing back and forth.

Lance wants to cry.

The fae curses again and suddenly the lion bounds forward, covering the distance of several men in a single movement. Lance can barely breath, both from the wind tearing the air from his lungs and the fear that squeezes tears from his eyes. He’s pinned to the rippling hide below him by the fae, and it takes a few moments before Lance can register that the fae is speaking.

No, singing would better describe the musical incantations that flow effortlessly from the fae’s lips even as the lion continues its breakneck pace. Lance can’t exactly see what singing can do to help in this particular situation, but he hopes it’s doing something. 

Death by lion consummation is becoming more appealing by the second.

His heart skips a beat when a deafening screech behind them echoes into the depths of the forest, so terrible in volume all Lance can hear for a moment is ringing and the frantic beating of his heart. The fae utters a word so guttural and raw that Lance isn’t sure whether or not he imagined the noise, and the lion rumbles a pained growl and skids to a halt, paws scrabbling at the dense forest floor, teetering off balance. Its flank glances off a tree as it lurches in a desperate attempt to right itself, and Lance is all but thrown off, sent sprawling into a fern.

Darkness clouds the edges of his vision when he recovers enough from the impact to lift his head, and though his head soon clears, he can do little more than prop himself up a bit more with his elbows. He aches, from head to toe, and his eyes sting. Lines of burning heat ignite with each rattled breath that he pulls into his throbbing chest, streaks of red that he finds streaming down his arms.

Lance counts his breath, the one thing that anchors him from letting the darkness sap his vision. It takes seven of these breaths for him to realize a battle is raging just in front of him. 

The fae brandishes a blade Lance hadn’t noticed before, movements too fast for Lance to follow. Purple sparks fly whenever his weapon connects with whatever he’s fighting against. The lion is a heap of bloodied fur at the base of an oak.

The same purple glow draws Lance’s attention, but he’s too late to do anything but gasp in warning as a grotesque creature with bulging limbs and sickeningly yellow eyes swings a club down towards the fae, who’s occupied with the foe in front of him.

Lance winces at the sickening crunch the club emits as it tears a wound into the flesh of the earth, having missed the fae by mere inches. The creature gets a slash to its neck for its effort and Lance screws his eyes shut in disgust at the steaming bile that spurts from its wound. The fight is over, he realizes, when he musters up enough courage to peek and all he sees is the fae standing over the corpse of his second attacker. What the fae does next is enough to send Lance vomiting into the poor fern he’d already crushed under himself, even more so when the fae brings the still beating heart up to his face and drinks, the organ dripping a golden fluid that flows over his lips and down his chin.

The fae shudders and swipes at his mouth with an arm, scenting the air and suddenly turning to face Lance, eyes a searing, molten gold.

Lance still wants to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be fair I DID tell you I was sorry.
> 
> Be warned. Slooooow updates. I recently (that's a lie) made friends with this amazing person named procrastination. 
> 
> :'D


	3. Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tears are drying on his face before Lance had even realized they’ve flowed, and he scrubs at his eyes viciously, as if he can clear the fog of homesickness that weighs in his heart. Memories of the day’s events come trickling back, though he can do little but stare blankly down at trembling hands, willing them to be still with a strength he doesn’t possess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait .-. but I have no excuse, come and stab me gently
> 
> on a more not-serious note, i literally did not edit a single thing here so please bear with me, in the morning i'll probably see some horrendous grammar thing and simultaneous die, cry and wheeze while fixing it

“My heart doesn’t t-taste good,” Lance informs the approaching fae. “Really, it doesn’t. Y-you don’t need to—” He squeaks as the fae crouches in front of him, eyes gleaming with a strange light. “Um. Hi.”

The fae bobs its head and grins with sharp teeth still coated in gold. When Lance doesn’t smile back, the fae frowns and boops Lance on the nose, suddenly cackling at the confused squawk he earns. 

Lance’s thoughts resemble a coherent paragraph of akjfhbadljfjk as the fae laughs, a bright sound of joy the Lance would appreciate more if he didn’t feel like he was the reason the fae was in hysterics. He grumbles, shifting before freezing in pain, letting out a groan as the numbness clears into an insistent, sharp stinging along his limbs and chest. This cuts the fae out of his laughter in an instant, and suddenly Lance is in the air, strong arms holding him up.

“Fuck,” he hisses as the world spins. Nausea brings bile up Lance’s throat but his stomach is too empty to bring up anything substantial to permanently stain the fae’s clothing. Though from the looks of it, a little puke decorating the dirt and blood already staining the fae’s shirt wouldn’t be out of place. 

The fae pats his head in encouragement before approaching the fallen lion, completely ignoring the steaming carcass that comes dangerously close to Lance’s toes as the fae walks past the dead attacker. Lance is too busy trying not to stare at the absolute havoc the battle had caused to the forest, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s being princess-carried. Under normal circumstances, he would be fervently expressing his protests but that would be… unhealthy.

By now, Lance’s brain is protesting all functionality. Time passes in a blur of movement and sound, muted colors and a chill that spreads through him like liquid ice in his veins. Darkness claims him from time to time, though, it’s unsubstantial and too fleeting to take the edge off the dull ache of exhaustion that blocks any computation with a mass of white that Lance is too tired to push away.

It’s not the careful way the fae lays him in a cloud of down and cotton, or the hushed voices that float in and out of his perception that rouses Lance from his half-slumber. Rather, it’s the warmth that coats him in a layer of comfort and luxury that shocks him awake—because home is not luxury, and sleep isn’t comfort. Home is cold and rough, home is waking up before the sun and slumping against a hard cot after a day of hard toil. Home is falling asleep listening to the snores of his father, home is comparing eye bags with Veronica before trudging out into the frost to fetch wood.

Home is most certainly not this, and the longing for what he doesn’t have paralyzes Lance with terror and grief.

The tears are drying on his face before Lance had even realized they’ve flowed, and he scrubs at his eyes viciously, as if he can clear the fog of homesickness that weighs in his heart. Memories of the day’s events come trickling back, though he can do little but stare blankly down at trembling hands, willing them to be still with a strength he doesn’t possess.

Lance supposes he should be surprised and maybe a little bit embarrassed as the fae rises from the armchair that he’d been occupying the entire time, but nothing seems to register strongly enough to pierce through the haze of numbness. 

The fae regards him with an unreadable expression before quietly exiting the room, the light from the lantern by the door casting twisting shadows across the furrow of his brow as he leaves. The emptiness of the room is glaringly evident right as the door clicks quietly shut. Lance sinks beneath his covers, shivering despite the pleasant temperature of the room. It’s night, he realizes, eyes falling on the large window that reveals nothing but darkness and the cold glimmer of stars.

The moon’s gone, he thinks, before finally, sleep claims him.

His dreams are murky, filled with people that turn to him, mouths moving but no sound coming out. A girl—he knows her, she’s familiar, but where from… his sister—pleads for something, empty pools of sadness where brightness once lit up her eyes. There are shadows behind her, cast by twisted creatures that lurk just beyond Lance’s vision. He reaches out to warn her, but she turns and runs, disappearing into the inky blackness.

And that’s how Lance wakes, reaching out to grasp air, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. Slowly, almost scared of what he’ll see, Lance brings his hand back down to his face, but whatever he had been hoping to see wasn’t present among the cuts that litter his palm. Cuts that have been treated with a salve of sorts, he realizes, flexing his fingers and wincing at the sting.

There’s a soft knock at the door. Lance rasps out a come in and a petite girl with amber hair enters, giving him a small bow and a cursory once-over. She’s a fae, he realizes, as scales sparkle from her skin when she passes the window. 

She moves around the room quietly, leaving Lance to sit up and stretch the soreness from his limbs. He’s thankful for her silence as she refills the jug by the bedside and pulls back the curtains covering the windows he hadn’t noticed, quickly filling the room with a soft golden glow. She lays a set of clothes at the foot of the bed and turns to leave, pausing with her hand on the door and turning back to Lance. 

“Knock twice when you’ve dressed, the master’s expecting you at dinner.” At his nod, she exits. Lance sighs, busying himself with washing and dressing, avoiding any thoughts of—well, there’s time for that later. The room is awash with gold, so different from the empty darkness he’d felt the previous night. A carpet covers most of the floor, rich red, dappled with embroidered flowers and birds. The wooden boards that emerge from under the luxurious material are cool under his feet as he pads to the mirror.

Lance almost laughs at his reflection. The cotton shirt and leather pants fit him well, but god does he look awful, cuts scattered across his face and arms, a bruise marring his cheekbone and dark circles under his eyes. He briefly considers trying to fix his appearance—but what good would looking nice do if he were to be killed?

Apparently a lot, as he fights down the dread creeping up his spine and knocks twice, greeted soon after by the same fae. She discreetly raises an eyebrow at him, judgement in her brown eyes.

“Passable,” she sighs, turning and heading down the halls, Lance following in her wake, “but you still look like a starken decided you’d make a good meal.” 

Lance shivers. ”...Starken?” She grins at the quiver in his voice but doesn’t answer, instead turning a corner and guiding Lance to a set of double doors, whorls and intricate patterns carved into the warm mahogany. She opens the door without much preamble and ushers Lance in, guiding him to a chair at the edge of a long table. Lance’s stomach grows at the assortment of sugared fruits and flaky pastries spread out in front of him, but nerves keep his hunger at bay.

He shivers at the memory of a pigeon Veronica had caught a few months ago, which had been fed and fattened before consumed. It’s laughable how similar the two were, trapped, treated kindly until inevitably…

Lance is glad for the quiet creak of the door, which leads him away from his less than desirable train of thought, though the gladness quickly fades as the same maid bows in deference at the figure entering the room. Who else but the master of the estate would a maid bow to?

The fae from the forest enters, dressed tastefully in dark red and gold trimmings, so different from the plain garb he’d sported earlier. Before Lance can even begin to question if he’d almost puked on a Grand Fae, the man too, steps aside, also bowing his head to a person hidden by the door.

A polished boot leads the way to a tall man, the regal lift of his chin and all his finery leaving no doubt to his position. Lance is glad he’s seated—his head spins a little trying to take everything in.

Short black hair leads to a white forelock, imperious horns of shining ebony sprout from his head and curve back. They branch off at the ends almost like antlers... if antlers were sharp (well, okay, they were but that’s not the problem—well actually that is the problem—) and looked like that could maul Lance with a single sweep (which normal antlers could also do given the circumstances but still not the point here. Point… points? Oh dear.)

The Grand Fae’s clothing is surprisingly simple for a man with surely enough wealth to buy pretty much anything. A clean white shirt with simple gold decorations, leather pants and a cloak of black and gold spilling down his shoulders is all he wears.

He regards Lance with curiosity, who shrivels back against his chair under the scrutinizing gaze. Lance is painfully aware of his own physical shortcomings if the strength in the Grand Fae’s broad shoulders and Lance’s own lean build is anything to go by. Though, the fae is smaller that Lance had imagined, muscular but not bulging, and as he moves to take a seat at the head of the table, it’s clear that—are those WINGS?? 

As Lance tries not to hyperventilate, his brain confirms that yes indeed, those are wings sprouting from the fae’s back, not a cloak. The fae clears his throat, now wearing an expression of clear amusement before seating himself right across from Lance, his wings (Wings aaaahhhhh) rustling behind him.

“Welcome, Lance McClain,” and wait right there Lance thinks, because “Lance McClain” is not allowed to sound that elegant from anyone’s mouth. His accent is just as exotic to Lance’s ears as the other fae’s, but it’s different, richer. “To my,” his mouth quirks slightly. “Humble estate.”

“I,” Lance squeaks. “Thank you?”

The other fae coughs slightly, eyes looking everywhere except at Lance. “This is Takashi Shirogane, Grand Fae of this region and master of this house,” he explains, glaring at the man as he chuckles.

“Forgive him,” Takashi says to Lance, humor dripping from his words like rich honey. “Keith’s simply embarrassed about his earlier display of… drunkenness.”

“I’m still embarrassed about being princess carried,” Lance says faintly, losing bravado with every word. “So, um, I’d say we’re even.”

“Wonderful,” Takashi continues, sweeping his hand out to gesture at the other fae. “This angry fellow here is Keith Kogane.” He watches the confusion flutter across Lance’s face and predicts his next question. “We both prefer… simplicity, over age-old traditions here. Shiro will suffice as my name, Takashi isn’t close to anything common in your village after all.”

That’s true, but how a Grand Fae would know so much about a small, insignificant village in his territory is beyond Lance, who voices about as much without realizing he’s speaking. “Well,” Shiro murmurs, leaning closer. “I don’t usually go out of my way to obtain such detailed information, but my aid—” his eyes dart to Keith and back, “informed me about the curious nature of how you ended up here, I was intrigued. It isn’t everyday a human sacrifices himself for another, especially where I or any of my kind are concerned.”

“We aren’t that heartless,” Lance protest, squirming at the almost praise-like nature of Shiro’s words.

“You can’t be certain of that,” Shiro responds lightly. He stops, seeming to realize himself and regains his jovial tone. “But it is true that you have caught my interest.” Keith sighs quietly and seats himself next to Shiro, ladling a thick soup into his bowl. He seems resigned in the low bow of his shoulders, but as he takes a spoonful, his eyes flit up to examine Lance, the shadow of his hair over his eyes leaving Lance questioning whether or not he had imagined it.

Lance suddenly feels an urge to prove himself, and he sits up taller, imitating Veronica’s stance whenever she had important news to share. “I am sure that there are many things you don’t know,” he counters, a bit of question slipping into his nonchalance. He didn’t actually know if there were things Shiro weren’t aware about. 

“Yes, I have much to learn, don’t I?” Shiro chuckles, grabbing a powdered roll and tearing it in half. “It’s good that I’ve recently come into the acquaintance of someone who can teach me.”

His eyes glint with something darker, not malicious, but almost… mischievous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sad thing is that, this was ready three days ago but i got so confused whether or not i had shiro standing or sitting and i could not for the life of me figure out where he was in the room but i KNEW i had written about it---and i hibernated for a while before actually fixing the problem because we're all brave souls here, so um
> 
> yeah
> 
> sorry about that :D


End file.
